When he returned to the study, it was fast approaching dinner time and Dalziel, red as a Victoria plum, had just come back from town. He noted Pascoe’s frame of mind and for once exercised some tact. From somewhere he had obtained a jugful of ice-cubes and a soda syphon. He splashed an ounce of Glen Grant into a glass, followed it with a handful of ice and a jet of soda, and handed it silently to his sergeant.
“No luck?’ he said.
“No.”
The neither. You’d think I had the plague. Every bugger at HQ thinks I’m having the time of my life.”
He emptied his glass and said diffidently, ”ll have looked in his clothes, of course.”
“I should think so.”
Pascoe too finished his drink, taking an ice-cube into his mouth and crushing it between his teeth.
“But I’ll go and see.”
“As you will. You could phone.”
“No. I’ll look for myself. It’s absurd. There’s something, I’ll swear.
Perhaps when I’ve cleared away all these impossible possibilities … And I’ll check with the ambulance men just in case.”
“You think this note’s important.”
Pascoe stared at his superior.
“You said he seemed the kind of man who would want to explain himself.”
“Did I? Then it must be true.”
After Pascoe had left, the fat man hefted thoughtfully in his hand the set of master keys he had taken from Sandra Firth.
The,’ he murmured to himself, I’ll just have my dinner and do a bit of pedigree checking.”
Dinner was particularly good and he washed it down with the rest of his Glen Grant, which in its turn brought on the need to rest. It was almost nine o’clock when he finally let himself stealthily into the admin, block.
After all, he told himself, as he gently eased open a filing cabinet drawer in the registrar’s office, half the bloody students in the place have seen them, so why not me?
Them were the staffs’ confidential files. He skipped lightly through them, pausing here and there, till he came to Fallowfield’s. Now he lit a cigarette, sat back at his ease and began to read slowly and thoroughly.
His academic qualifications he had already seen on the curriculum vitae.
They were excellent, a very good first degree and a couple of high post-graduate qualifications. But it was in the comments made by those who taught and employed him that Dalziel was most interested. He read the letter from the headmaster of Coltsfoot College twice. It was couched in terms of high praise. Great stress was laid on Fallowfield’s ability to influence thought, his progressive thinking and his pre-eminent suitability to work with older students. Almost too much stress, thought Dalziel. He had many years’ experience of reading and hearing between the lines.
On an impulse he picked up the phone and when he got the operator, gave her the number of Coltsfoot College. You never knew your luck.
While she was trying to establish a connection, he helped himself to a few select student files and began to read them. He didn’t know his luck.
Pascoe knew his luck. It was rotten. The clothes had contained nothing helpful, the doctor who had examined Fallowfield could offer no useful contribution other than reiterating the cause and probable time of death; and the ambulance men, who were off-duty and had to be tracked to their homes, were no help either and in fact took umbrage at the suggestion that something other than the body might have been removed from the lab.
Pascoe realized he had not been as diplomatic as was his wont and after looking in at Headquarters where the heavy ironies of his mock-envious colleagues did not help, he went round to his flat for a change of clothing and a bite to eat. There was a stack of mail, mostly circulars, and he tossed them on the table beside the telephone. He made himself a cup of tea and a cheese sandwich and sat down in the ancient but extremely comfortable armchair which stood beneath the open window.
An hour later he woke with the cup of cold tea miraculously unspilt on the arm of the chair and the sandwich, one bite missing, still clutched in his right hand. He saw the time, groaned and pushed himself unsteadily out of the chair, knocking the teacup on to the floor.
Cursing now he mopped up the mess with an antimacassar and pulled the phone towards him. This time it was his mail which fell to the carpet.
He swore again, looking down at the colourful display.
Threepence off this; half-price subscription to that; win half a million for a farthing. (Could you legally wager a non-legal coin?) It wouldn’t be so bad if he ever got any of the sexy stuff people were always complaining about. Still, he supposed it all brought revenue to the Post Office.
It was time he reported in. Not that he had anything to report. He might as well send a letter.
It came to him as he lifted the phone. He had known the answer all along. The mail! Fallowfield had gone to the college to post his note.
Not for him the last letter confiscated by the police and read by the coroner. No, this was one note which was going to reach the addressee.